It's Not a Math Equation
by Reason to Scatter
Summary: Prompt fill for the Johnlock gift exchange, for closetvictorian. Sherlock talks John into dancing with him, "for a case", but...


**A/N: Written for closetvictorian on tumblr, in the Johnlock Gift Exchange. The prompt was: "Sherlock talks John into ballroom dancing with him. It's for a case! Any rating." **

**Hahahahaha super misleading title huh? But I didn't have a relevant title and this was probably the most profound line I've ever written.  
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**I hope you enjoy it! Blaaah I know nothing about dancing.  
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John was fairly used to seeing odd things when he came back to the flat after his shift at the surgery. Sherlock was emphatically not one's typical flatmate, and he'd learned to deal with open flames and the occasional cloud of smoke as a matter of course (although he was never going to be used to coming home finding the furniture actually _on _fire, or bloody body parts hanging around, and his madman best friend wandering around in a sheet draped like a toga).

So it was a bit of a relief, coming home to see Sherlock doing nothing stranger than energetically playing violin-a spirited, contagious waltz that had John tapping his fingers on his thigh as he headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock intercepted him halfway through the den, though, violin put down on the coffee table next to a carelessly-opened file folder with papers strewn around it.

"John. Excellent timing." He pulled John by the shoulders into the empty space in front of the sofa. "I require your assistance." The present tense was slightly reassuring, as it implied he'd be able to refuse whatever drug Sherlock wanted to test on him now.

"What?" he asked, still a bit apprehensive. It was always a risk saying 'no' to Sherlock; half the time he'd go ahead anyway, and the other half he'd sulk until you gave in before something flammable, explosive, toxic, or any combination of the three got cooked up in the kitchen.

"I need you to dance with me."

This was not what John expected to hear, and it took him a minute to process. "Pardon?"

"Dancing," Sherlock said impatiently. "Specifically the waltz. It's for a case, I need to refresh my memory of the steps."

"Couldn't you just, I dunno, YouTube it?"

"Tried. I need actual perspective."

"What kind of case is this, anyway?"

"Dull one, but I owe Lestrade a few cold cases." Sherlock scowled, and John caught himself grimacing in sympathy. The cold cases were, obviously, a lot safer than fresh stuff, and there were the victims' families looking for closure, but they lacked the thrill of the actual scene, of watching Sherlock put the answer together, and of the chases through dark alleys and _Christ, Watson, are your priorities skewed_, he thought a bit guiltily.

"Not at all," Sherlock said, apparently in response. John jumped at the sudden intrusion. "The goal of taking cases is to ward off boredom. There's no cause for guilt in finding the less interesting ones tedious."

"They still need solving, Sherlock, for the families if nothing else," John said. "And how did you know?"

"Couldn't be simpler," Sherlock said, not deigning to comment on the sentimental half of John's words. "You glanced at the file on the coffee table and frowned when I explained, but quickly caught yourself and looked down-your typical textbook reaction to feelings of guilt, shame, or regret. It's not difficult to connect the dots."

John shook his head. "Brilliant."

"Meretricious," Sherlock disagreed; nevertheless, his lips quirked in a small smile. He held out a hand. "May I have this dance?"

Feeling incredibly awkward, John placed his hand in Sherlock's, flinching when the detective put his hand on his waist. "Wait, why am I the woman?"

"You're shorter," Sherlock said. The 'obviously' was just barely not actually audible. "The waltz is designed with specific height parameters for each participant in mind."

"Only you would talk about a dance like it's a piece of architecture," John muttered. "All right, go on. Let's get it over with."

With that assent, Sherlock began to lead with careful steps, murmuring "One, two, three, one, two, three" to keep them in time. It didn't work terribly well; John was an utterly shite dancer-the cause of some distress to a number of school-days dates – and moreover, was far, far too aware of the warm weight of Sherlock's hand on him and just how close to the other man's chest he was. Naturally, this meant Sherlock got his feet trodden on several times.

"This isn't working," the detective announced eventually, and stopped. "I'm likely to get bruised feet if you keep letting the sexual identity crisis you're having distract you."

"I am not having a crisis," John snapped.

"This environment isn't helping, either," Sherlock mused, ignoring John again. "You feel no pressure to maintain appearances or keep up decorum in the safety of our own flat." He thought for a few minutes, still absently holding onto John, which was incredibly awkward and yet comfortable at the same time and no, he had _not_ just thought that, had he?

"That just might work," Sherlock said, interrupting John's reverie for the second time that day. "Close your eyes."

"What? Why?"

"Just do it."

That really didn't help with the flow of unnerving-were they unnerving?-images running through John's brain now, picture-perfect flashes of soft lips and the archetypal cupid's bow – no, stop thinking that right now. With some trepidation and a dash of resentment – there had been no crisis until Sherlock had mentioned it – John obeyed.

"I want you to imagine exactly what I tell you. Forget the flat, forget where you are, forget the idiotic plan you have of actually convincing me eat tonight. Just listen and follow my lead."

"Okay," John said slowly.

"All right. Picture a ballroom…" Sherlock went on to describe an extravagantly grand, almost vulgar Victorian ball in exhaustive detail, right down to the colours currently in fashion and the summer breeze blowing in from the open garden doors. As his deep voice rumbled on to the musicians, hidden behind their screen, and the music, he began to move, his own narrative's cadence becoming their rhythm. Immersed in the vision Sherlock was describing to him, John barely even noticed. He'd heard the detective taunt the Yard people for their lack of intelligence before, many times, but he'd seemed to value it only in practical use. What he was doing now was exactly the 'romanticized drivel' he scorned in John's blog; and the way he went about it was so typically _Sherlock_-all observations and quantifiable facts, no purple prose or fanciful adjectives-that John couldn't help grinning a bit.

Sherlock eventually ran out of details, after the type (along with Latin name and average height) of tree growing in the pots lining the west side of the ballroom, and gently brought their dance to a halt. John opened his eyes to see his flatmate smirking smugly.

"I was right," he declared. "Your problem is overthinking."

"_My_ problem is overthinking?" John echoed. "After that little display, can you really say that?"

"It's my job," Sherlock said loftily. "I don't let my thoughts overwhelm my ability to function."

This was a flat out lie-why else did John have to endure the sulks of boredom, cravings running wild, in between cases-but he didn't say anything. The silence stretched out, a few moments passing before they both realized they were still holding on to each other.

Sherlock cleared his throat and released him. "Thank you, John, your assistance is much appreciated."

John stared up at his flatmate's unreadable face and wondered. Yes, they were closer than any other friend he'd had and sometimes he did question whether they were as platonic as he thought, _but he wasn't gay_, but he couldn't ignore the fact that the anger at seeing new bullet holes in the wall or body parts in the fridge or unspeakable things in the sink was always, always overridden by a rush of mad affection. Wasn't that love?

But he wasn't gay, and he wasn't sure if Sherlock was anything, really…

_Your problem is overthinking._

John hesitated for a fraction of a second more before he pulled Sherlock back towards him, stretched up, and kissed the taller man squarely on the lips.

It was…good. No worse than any first kiss John had ever had-certainly better than some-and when Sherlock responded almost immediately, an electric thrill raced down his spine. There was an inviting flicker of tongue on open lips, warmth and feather-light teasing touches and just a general sweetness about the whole thing.

John broke away first to suck in air. Sherlock's pale eyes were alight.

"Oh," he breathed. "I was right."

"Of course you were, aren't you always," John said resignedly. "You would figure out my own feelings before I did, wouldn't you. Of course, in my defense, I really didn't think I was gay. Or bi, or anything like that."

"Yes, well, even if you aren't, that'd be one of those…those rule things," Sherlock informed him triumphantly, and drew John flush against him, chest to chest. John could feel his heart pounding rapidly, and made a few deductions of his own.

"Okay, tell me the truth now." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, liking the solidarity of having him right there. "There was no case, was there." It really wasn't a question.

"No," Sherlock said, unsurprisingly not even having the grace to try and sound embarrassed. "Good cover, though; if I'd been wrong and you hadn't reciprocated, it would have been easy enough to dismiss."

John shook his head. All the little manipulations seemed so obvious now, in hindsight. "You couldn't have just…said something? Asked, maybe?"

"That would have been a better option if you'd worked out what your own feelings were already," Sherlock said. "But you hadn't. It was critical to get you to that point."

"You are the world's biggest prat," John said incredulously, and pushed Sherlock back onto the sofa. "This isn't a math equation. It's not even chemistry." He followed him down and situated himself quite happily on Sherlock's lap. "You can't just add and subtract and balance it until you get a perfect product before you start moving. It's more like a story, a song…a dance," he added. "You can't solve it. You just follow it."

"Romanticism." Sherlock smiled slowly and reached up to caress John's face. John leaned in and murmured against those gorgeous lips.

"Shut up; there are better things you could be doing with that mouth right now."


End file.
